


all my mistakes

by AllOfThisMatter



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Sex, there's kind of a plot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllOfThisMatter/pseuds/AllOfThisMatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I made decisions some right and some wrong</em><br/><em>And I let some love go I wish wasn't gone</em><br/><em>These things and more I wish I had not done</em><br/> <br/><em>But I can't go back</em><br/><em>And I don't want to</em><br/><em>'Cause all my mistakes</em><br/><em>They brought me to you</em></p><p>       -The Avett Brothers, "All My Mistakes"</p><p> </p><p>She's a point of clarity in an unfocused world.  Here's how he loses her and gets her back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all my mistakes

He had only the vaguest recollections of how he ended up in the dumpster, and none at all of being fished out, but she… she was sharp and clear in his mind. 

He remembers grabbing her wrist, begging her not to call 911, remembers her trying to convince him to let her, remembers the contrast of the hard wood floor at his back and the soft skin of her wrist beneath his hand. Even as he was drifting through a haze and gripping only to a sliver of consciousness, even before he knew her name, every sensation of her blazed into his memory. The gentle, clever hands that skillfully tugged a needle in and out of his skin, that smoothed his hair and scrubbed away blood and sweat and dirt. The quiet, urgent voice that coaxed him back from the brink, that absently hummed some familiar tune as she worked. Her dark, rich, heady perfume that settled on his fevered flesh like a soft snow at the very end of autumn. The anxious but steady fluttering of her heart that he felt through her fingertips, that thrummed in his ears.

She must have cleaned and stitched and bandaged him for at least a couple of hours. He couldn’t say, exactly, the movement of time being bent and slurred by pain and oblivion, but at last she sat back and pressed her face into her hands. She was murmuring something, saying how it was up to him now if he made it, saying he should really sleep now, praying that he woke up afterward. He obeyed, gratefully, letting go of his hold on her presence and submitting to the silence.

And miracle of miracles, he did wake up, weak and wounded on a couch in an apartment. Her apartment. She materialized almost immediately upon hearing him stir, bursting into vivid reality when he had been sure she must have been a dream. Too good and clean for a man like him.

She didn’t deserve the misfortune of knowing him like this, of meeting the devil when trying to do good work, holy work. He wished that he’d met her in some regular way, like sitting next to her on a subway or bumping into her at a coffee shop. That he could be a regular man and she could be the answer to his prayers.

But men like him didn’t pray to meet angels. They prayed for strength to defeat their own kind. He did his best to avoid angels. Briefly he wished that he’d died in that dumpster instead of dragging her into the dark world he lived in, but there was no going back now. To her and to himself, he promised that whatever he did from now on, he would make sure that she was safe. He owed her that and more, so much more than he could ever give, but damned if he wasn’t going to try.

Claire. Such a beautiful name. He liked the feeling of it in his mouth, pouring from his lips like a bubbly champagne. It sounded more like a hymn than any pale arrangement of chords and melodies ever could, and he could not stop himself from saying it.

She sat beside him, looking over her work from the long hours before and making sure the stitches held. Her hands were wonderfully cool and soothing as they deftly checked their own own work. If he hadn’t known already, they would have told him of her long nights in the ER, of the countless bones she’d set and wounds she’d stitched. Her hands were calloused and a little dry from constant washing, her fingers slender and strong, nails neatly short and unpainted. Hers were a healer’s hands. She helped people, saved people. He felt unworthy of using up her time like this, of her saving him when he did not deserve to be saved.

He could tell she was curious about him. It was for the best that she know as little as possible. He smiled at the name she chose to call him, remarkably close to the truth. Her dry wit was so refreshing, her easy laughter so sweet to his senses. More than that, her belief in him was so honest, so real that he could almost pretend he was worthy of it. 

He watched her lie, smoothly and confidently on the outside, but heart pounding within. This woman that he barely knew took him into her home, fixed him up, and then lied to a Russian gang member protect him. The feeling of guilt and undeserving practically choked him. And yet. She became such a point of clarity, an anchor to the heart of his task. She was exactly the kind of person he was trying to protect. Good. Kind. Compassionate.

She wouldn’t be swayed to leave the rooftop, to leave him to his bloody task. The demon in him roared and gnashed its teeth, thrashing to be released, but at that time he was desperate to keep it leashed, to keep it far away from her. He didn’t want her to lose that faith that made her think he was a hero. At the very least, maybe she would be frightened enough that she would tell him to stay out of her life, frightened enough that she’d hate him. But then she told him how to really torture the false officer. There was a savage undercurrent in her voice when she said it, hard and unyielding. She didn’t necessarily enjoy it. But she didn’t regret it either. Maybe she wasn't just an angel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He tried to stay away from her, tried to keep her safe and off the radar. But she became the only peace he had in those dark days. He started calling just to hear her voice, to ask her about her day. She always answered his calls by asking what was wrong, how bad it was. So desperately, he needed her to know that she wasn’t just the person he went to for injuries. She wouldn’t believe him if he said so, but it was probably better this way. Some nights, when he wasn’t out being the devil, when he just couldn’t sleep, he’d find himself on the stoop outside her building, just about to call and ask if he could come up. He always turned away and went home, alone with only the memory of her.

When he does go to see her, he can’t stop himself from saying her name, from brushing his fingers over her skin. It feels like coming home from war, like he’s had her letters in his helmet and now he’s come back to her from hell itself. Almost like habit, he curls his hand around her elbow when she stitches, fingers grazing her skin and reminding him she’s real.

When he answered the burner and heard screams and struggles instead of her voice, the bottom dropped out of the world and he was running, running, running to her, hoping he’d imagined this and she was asleep in her bed, safe and sound. But before he was even on her floor he knew she was gone, and he couldn’t breathe, and the devil inside choked him, shifting and shrieking beneath his skin. 

He’ll never forget her dark laughter when he cut the lights in the garage. It was a relief to hear, and a relief to know that she knew he was there for her. He became some sort of animal that night, abandoning any trace of Matthew Murdock and reveling in the bloodshed, the broken bones. It was only when the last Russian yanked her up and put a gun to her head that he came back to himself. She was clarity, focus, and he scarcely remembered destroying the man until the bat connected with his head and then slipped from her hands. Shaking and bloodied, but unbroken, she stood a few feet from him and he just drank her in, cataloguing every inch of her in utter desperation to know that she was alright. 

Then the distinct taste of her tears salted the air and he pulled her close, murmuring consolation, yet aware that nothing could erase what had just happened to her, what had been done to her because of him. She said nothing except his name, whispered between soft sobs, and he lifted her into his arms and carried her home.

He took care of her, just like she had always cared for him, and even with her emotions clouding all of his senses he could feel one clear truth radiating from her. She felt safe. There, with him, even after everything she’d been through. She disappeared into his bathroom to shower and he sat on the couch, painfully aware of how this place had never felt like a home until she set foot in it, painfully aware of how empty both he and it would feel when she eventually left. A tear fell onto his hand. He hadn’t even known he was crying but somehow it wasn’t a surprise. He’d never been the kind of man to ignore and suppress his emotions, and in that moment he felt an ache like nothing else, a deep-seated, frantic loneliness. He’d almost lost her and he knew he likely would again. She would go and live her life and forget about her brief dance with the devil, and although he knew that was for the best, he couldn't stop himself from wanting her to stay, no matter what.

Her shirt laid abandoned on the arm of the couch and slowly he reached for it, fingers tangling in the fabric and pulling it towards him. He pressed his face into the garment, inhaling the strange mingled scent of blood and her shampoo, her perfume, and something innately Claire, and the tears slowed to a stop. With something like comfort pulling him down, he tugged a blanket over himself and drifted to sleep, safe in the knowledge that she slept just a room away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning came and he dressed slowly, careful not to wake her, not to break the spell that kept her there, in his bedroom and in his life. He was making them breakfast when he heard her wake, heard her walking into the living room softly, and he listened to her body aching with each step. A slow shiver rippled through his limbs from his hyper awareness of the sound of his robe wrapped tightly around her, rasping over her curves; of the scent of his shampoo in her hair and his soap on her skin.

Her voice was rough, as to be expected, but clear and strong and unmistakably hers. He realized in that moment that when he had forgotten everything, when he had forgotten even his own name, he would remember her voice, the whisper of her breath, the thrill of her laughter.

The presence of copper laid heavy on his tongue and he heard the small, damp sound of her skin tearing open again. He felt his own heart begin to race as his hands smoothed her hair off her shoulders and his fingers examined the cut, her fractured ribs, the shifting of muscle and sinew that knit her together. He liked to make her laugh. She chuckled at the “old ship” line, and he smiled, helping her shrug the robe back to a decent level.

He asked her to stay. She agreed. And then, everything blurred and sharpened and the barest brush of his lips on hers was the sweetest taste he’d ever known. He felt the heat of her hands hesitate over his skin and then settle, touching, testing, taking. His own curled around her shoulders, caressed her collarbones and throat. Her breath hitched and he could feel her swallow, dragging in air with uncertainty and want at the same time. The pressure of her touch stayed with him all day, even when he returned to her that evening.

The next day, he had to go out, and she told him she didn't think she could do it. Didn’t think she could be with him. He’s scar tissue and thrice- broken bones that don’t wound easily, but that does, tearing and cracking him. He hopes he grows back stronger after her, but he couldn’t know for sure. Numb inside as he turns away, he tells her the honest truth. She shouldn’t love him. It’s the truth, whether or not it’s a good one, and it hollows him out. She deserves better and he was a fool to think he deserved her. _It’s for the best,_ he told himself as the door closed between them, leaving her in his living room and him in hell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He tried not to see her, if he could help it. If he could fix it himself, he did, reminding himself that any pain he felt would be amplified by being with her but _without_ her at the same time. When he did see her, he tried not to speak, afraid that he’d beg her, plead with her, and he wouldn’t do that to either of them. He settled for the simple comfort of touching her, of holding her elbow while she worked, of brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. It’s more than enough. It has to be.

Nobu nearly killed him. He stumbled haphazardly through the streets, hands pressed against the gaping wound in his side that would likely kill him first. He stopped on her street, listening for her voice drifting from her floor, but she was gone, probably at the hospital saving those who deserved it. So he kept going, meaning to lie down in his bed and die. But then Foggy appeared in his apartment like a guardian angel, and he fell to the floor, bleeding out and wondering if this was the end before passing into unconsciousness.

When he awoke, the first thing he knew was her scent in his apartment, not a few hours old. He took in deep lungfuls, aware that she had likely left before he was conscious on purpose, and that last night might have been the last time she ever came to him. She’d saved his life too many times to count, and he would never be able to repay her. 

Foggy was merciless, as he deserved to be, and for the most part, Matt just laid there and took it. The questions, the accusations, all completely appropriate. When his best friend left, he wondered briefly how many more people he would lose at this rate. He hoped it was worth it.

She came to him one more time, to check on his progress, and to tell him she was leaving. He just nodded, quietly asking for how long, when she would return, if at all. She teased him, attempting lightheartedness but he could taste the pricking of tears at her eyes. He let her go, despite every inch of his frame demanding that he run after her, take her into his arms and kiss her. He would respect her choice, and one day he would die with bitter regret in his heart and her name on his lips, but she would be fine. She would be safe, and that would be enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s just a day after he returned Wilson Fisk to government custody, and he’s sitting at his kitchen counter, hand wrapped loosely around a beer. He aches all over and he’s reliving the fight, feeling Fisk’s punches and kicks like they’re still coming. He’s alone, but he’s not fighting with Foggy anymore, and Karen is safe in her ignorance of his nocturnal activities, and he’s alone in his empty apartment, drinking to numb the pain. _It was worth it,_ he tells himself, but he’s not so sure when all he can think about is the sweet taste of her lips, the sweet sound of her voice.

He’s just standing to throw away the first beer and reach for a second when he hears a key turn in the lock and he freezes. He knows immediately that it’s her, would have known the instant she set foot in the building if he hadn’t been so self-absorbed. The door creaks open and slowly he sits back down, removing his glasses and folding them, placing them on the counter. He closes his sightless eyes, measuring how his heart beats faster with every step she takes into his apartment, wishing for the first time in many years that he could see, if only to look in her eyes and find the same want in them that he feels to his very core.

She says his name quietly, like a prayer, and his skin raises several degrees in temperature. He swallows, pressing back a million crazy things he wants to say to her, opens his mouth and closes it again. She moves closer and closer until she’s right beside him and her hands cradle his face and every one of his senses is burning, burning, trying to consume this moment like a spark on dry wood.

“I saw what you did. How you stopped Fisk from escaping. How you beat him without killing him. I had to see you. I told you I was going to stay away but I knew you’d be here, alone and hurting, and damn it, I can’t stay away from you. I can’t stop myself from coming to you, from wanting to fix you and protect you. You’re in my veins, Matthew. You’re a drug and I’m going insane.”

She says all this in little more than a whisper, her voice silken but strained, and he knows that she’s moments from crying. Carefully, uncertainly, he puts his hands on her waist, fingers curling experimentally into her flesh before pulling her close and resting his head on her chest, listening to the steady, nervous fluttering of her heart. Her hands slip into his hair and he sighs at the feeling of her nails on his scalp. She shivers as his arms tighten around her, trying to pull her closer, impossibly closer.

“Claire,” he murmurs into her neck, “Claire, Claire, Claire.”

“Matt,” she answers, her voice quavering slightly.

“May I kiss you?”

“Please.”

That’s all it takes. He surges off the chair and lifts her off her feet before his hands slip from her hips one at a time to slide under her thighs and drag them up, entwining her legs around his waist. Her fingers tangle in his hair and tug as she presses her lips greedily to his, gasping for breath but unwilling to stop. She moans when he moves his mouth to nip at her jawline, down the column of her throat and along her collarbone, and the sound is more than enough to unravel what’s left of his restraint. With one hand still wrapped tightly around her, his other sweeps away what little is on the counter and he gently sets her down.

Her legs are still loosely linked around him, slightly spread and shaking as her hands fall to his shoulders for balance. He can smell how badly she wants him and he sways, his empty eyes flickering shut as he tries to recover from the sensation. His hands are resting on her knees but languorously he slides them over her thighs, up her hips and waist, grazing the sides of her breasts as his fingers find the top button of her blouse.

“Don’t you dare tease me by taking your time with this, Murdock. You rip this shirt off of me right now,” she growls, practically feral with need, and digs her fingernails into his shoulders.

He laughs, and as he kisses her again, his hands rend the fabric easily. Buttons are still bouncing and clattering as she shrugs the shredded garment from her shoulders and sucks a bruise into his neck. His breath stutters at the feeling and he smiles wickedly at the knowledge that he’s been marked as hers now, as if there was any doubt before. He runs his hands over her exposed stomach, and then moves to run them up and down her arms and back, and she practically screams in frustration. At last he takes pity and his nimble fingers effortlessly twist the clasp of her bra, letting the little lace thing fall into her lap.

His hands slide to rest on her rib cage, just below the soft undersides of her breasts, and he pauses to feel her lungs expanding, the brush of her soft flesh on his hands, the thundering of her heart. She whines his name as his lips close around one swollen tip and his fingers tease the other, and she writhes beneath him, tightening her legs around him and pulling him as close as possible. He’s merciless, sucking and biting and twisting and he knows that she could burst apart just from this and so he keeps on until she screams and goes limp in his arms, panting and quivering and moaning his name over and over again.

He presses light kisses across her collarbones while she recovers, murmuring how lovely she is, how sweet she tastes. When she comes back to her senses, a slow, predatory smile spreads across her lips and she reaches for the hem of his tee shirt and tugs it up and off of him. Her hands are cool from the counter top as they smooth across his chest, nails gently scratching over the ridges and planes that she knows so well.

He's been blind for some twenty-odd years and through most of that time he's taught himself not to miss his sight, but here, with her against him, all warmth and softness, he laments that he can't see her like this, can't see the rosy blush he knows must be suffusing the soft brown skin he asked her to describe to him. His mind flashes back to that moment, to the self-consciousness in her voice as she told him the color of her skin, her hair, her eyes, and he smiled and said she must be so lovely, and ached when she said she really wasn't much. He wanted to ask her why she thinks that, to tell her he means what he says, but who'd believe a blind man's observations on a piece of artwork?

“You may be awfully pretty when you’re hurt, but I have to say you look much better like this,” she purrs as her fingers toy with the waistband of his sweats. 

His muscles lock as she pulls the drawstring that’s holding the sweats to his hips, as her hands push them and his boxers off in one fell swoop. He realizes that he’s not breathing, that he can feel her eyes moving over every inch of his body and he tries to draw in even breaths but the best he can do are shuddering gasps as her hand closes around his shaft and he tilts his head back, trying to find balance where she’s upended it.

She’s slow, determined, drawing gently up and down from base to tip and he groans, wrapping a hand around her wrist and pulling her away.

“Please, Claire. Not- not yet,” he sighs against her lips as he looses the button and zipper of her jeans, peeling them off achingly slowly. “I need to touch you, all of you.”

His hands slide to the small of her back and gently lay her flat against the counter, simultaneously pulling her hips almost to the edge of it. Her legs fall away from his waist as he spreads her thighs and closes his hands around her ankles, fingers kneading steadily higher. He slides them up, smoothes them over every inch of her beautiful legs, and leans down to press kisses into the hollows of her knees and upwards. His name is still pouring from her lips between _yeses_ and _pleases_ and he’s barely hanging onto his focus. The skin of her inner thighs is so soft, so warm, and he nips and sucks little bruises into it, eliciting truly obscene noises from her. 

“Is this alright, Claire?” he whispers into the slight rounding of her stomach as he kisses downwards again.

She answers by biting down on her fist and moaning, and he can’t help but smile at the effect he has on her. After what feels like an eternity, he spreads her open and presses his lips to her molten core, sipping and nipping at her swollen flesh. She keens and bucks her hips and he presses one hand flat on her stomach to hold her in place. He curls his tongue around her aching clit and scrapes his teeth against it, dragging broken sobs from her lips as he continues his onslaught. She’s absolutely dripping for him, and his free hand teases her entrance, tracing slow circles around it before he slips two fingers in and out, moaning at the feeling of her muscles clenching around him.

“Matt, you’re killing m-“ she cries, her words devolving into sobs as his fingers crook against a sensitive spot inside her and her back arches off the counter. She’s panting as he finds that spot again and again, and the sound of her hair swishing against the counter top as she tosses her head from side to side is intoxicating, the sound of her whimpers and moans is enchanting, but he wants to hear her say his name again, wants to make up for all the nights she didn’t know it. 

“Please, Claire. Please say my name again,” he murmurs before curling his fingers again and biting down gently on her swollen clit, pushing her over the edge once more.

She’s screaming now, screaming his name as she spirals out of control, and he just takes in every sensation of her, her ragged breath and ragged heart beat, her hands twisted in his hair, her soft sighs as she returns to him, the scent of sex and the scent of her perfume clouding his mind, the taste of her on his lips driving him mad.

When she’s composed herself, she sits up and wraps her body around him, kissing him roughly and sweetly and slowly all at once. He groans against her lips, knowing that she can taste herself on his tongue, and he knows he must be pressing bruises into her hips, he’s holding her so tightly but she just pushes all the more fiercely against him.

She draws back slightly and rests her forehead against his, her small, panting breaths ghosting over his eyelids and lashes and making him shiver with want. Her hands are tracing patterns into his jaw, and he can still feel her shaking at her core. 

“Is it my turn yet, Matthew? To touch you? To make you scream?”

He swallows, so aware of how badly he aches for her, and nods. “If that’s what you want, Claire.”

She chuckles darkly and presses her lips to his forehead. “Then take me to bed.”

Fragile is not a word he would use to describe her, but in this moment he can’t stop himself from holding her like she’s something delicate, breakable, and he shifts her so that he can wrap an arm underneath her legs, then turns toward his bedroom. Her arms are draped around his shoulders and her hands are stroking into his hair and down his neck and she’s whispering such sinful things in his ear as he walks, slowly and steadily, that he can barely breathe.

“I loved the feeling of your beard on my thighs, and your clever hands, oh, your wonderful hands, torturing me, twisting inside me. I’ll dream about this, whenever I have to be away from you, and I’ll wake up a needy, panting mess. I’ll put my own hands all over my body, pretending they’re yours and I’ll moan your name when I break apart. And the things I’m going to do to you tonight, Matthew, will do the same to you, I promise.”

In his bedroom at last, she slinks out of his arms and pushes him onto the bed.

“I keep my promises,” she growls as she sinks to her knees before him, nails scraping down his body as she works her way to his legs, pushing them open, leaving him vulnerable and shaking in desperate want.

His burning world is blazing out of control and she’s a cold summer rain falling on him, turning the pair of them to steam as they consume each other whole.

He knows that she's looking into his darkened eyes, and again he wishes he could see her in this moment, see her disheveled hair and her damp skin and the lust in her eyes as her strong hands take hold of him and drag him to the brink. He fists his hands in the sheets as he trembles beneath her touch, fighting the impulse to pull her onto the bed with him and take her hard and fast. He wants to let her have her way, wants to be possessed by her, wants her to know his body like he knows hers and so he fights it, fights it fiercely, and closes his eyes as he gives in to her.

The first press of her lips on his head is electric and brokenly he sobs her name as her nails drag up and down his shaft, and then he’s consumed by the heat of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the stroking of her tongue.

“C-Claire, I can’t— you— please,” he moans, threading his fingers through her damp, tangled hair, unsure of whether to let her continue. She purrs around him and stars are born and dying in the space behind his sightless eyes as he tries to hold on to his control. At last she takes pity, releasing him and rising from her knees to nudge him the rest of the way onto the bed. His breath is erratic and painful, like he’s just run for miles and miles, but he loves it, loves what she does to him, and he smiles as her hands explore his form, as she places her knees on either side of him and leans down to kiss him, her breasts brushing his chest lightly.

Slowly, achingly slowly, she guides him into her dripping core, and then stills, moving only to kiss bruises onto his shoulder. She’s destroying him, piece by piece, but it’s the sweetest destruction and all he can do is beg for more, drunk on the feeling of her pulsing around him. And then she starts to move and the axis of the world tilts on her whim and his hands are closed tightly around her waist as he keeps pace with this wild raging thing that she’s become, that he’s enamored with. It’s only mere moments before she keens, breaking apart and breaking him too, and she collapses atop him, sated and shivering and murmuring his name. He wraps his arms around her, and feels as much as he can, feels his heart thundering beneath hers, feels the slick press of their skin, feels the sleepy kisses she’s pressing into his chest, feels the faint tune she’s humming as she drifts to sleep. 

Maybe she's not an angel. Maybe he's not a devil. Maybe there's enough light and dark in the pair of them to make a full day, to turn the earth, to push and pull the tides. Maybe they've been cast out of heaven, but they fell together, a blaze of morning sun, and they made their own out of whispers and kisses and contentment.

He follows her shortly, whispering unheard _i-love-yous_ into her damp hair as he falls into unconsciousness, so sharply aware as he’s falling of her place in his heart, in his mind, desperate to commit her to memory and to show her from now on that he belongs to her and no one else. And for the first time in many nights, he sleeps, at peace at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Daredevil or any of its characters.
> 
> This is my second ever shot at anything smutty, so let me know what you think. This is pretty new territory for me.
> 
> Also, let's pretend I found a good way to work in a mention of Claire being on the pill. Safe sex, kiddos.


End file.
